


Dispatch

by Antelotte



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mystery, Slow Build, Suspense, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2020-09-25 01:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20368333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antelotte/pseuds/Antelotte
Summary: “What do you want from me?”The car’s fogging up and daylight is soon to creep over the horizon, but neither notices as Oikawa closes the space between them, indifferent to the silt and mud skimming the backseat leather, all to frame Iwaizumi’s face in his palms.Oikawa’s touch is deathly cold and hesitant and nothing resembling the man he’s gotten to know three months ago. It’s a shallow attempt at soothing him, thumbs grazing over wet cheekbones, and when Iwaizumi clasps the other’s elbow, the look he gets in return makes him question if he had ever really met Oikawa until today.Iwaizumi Hajime returns to his childhood home after years. Something's amiss.





	1. Transmissions Blare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A radio station keeps Hajime company on his way home.

The radio twitches to static again, the host becoming distorted in varying lengths of ribbons. It's not the first time, and certain won't be the last, but it doesn't ease the twinge of irritation that settles on his skin like a film. 

“Don’t fail me now,” Iwaizumi mutters. 

Banging the top of the dashboard, the anchor’s voice chimes back in, crisp and clear. 

_‘Bzzrsssss_—isn’t that a marvel? Like I always say, better to be safe than sorry folks! Now onto less important things than my chatter, let’s see how the weather will fare in the morning, shall we?...’

Iwaizumi sighs and reclines back in his seat, his right hand joining his left on the wheel. His eyes dart to the block numbers on the clock and suppresses the groan rumbling in his throat. 

4:17AM blinds him, only two hours shy of dawn and Iwaizumi’s probable demise. 

That is, if he’s still here.

It wasn’t supposed to be this long and winded. Usually he would’ve gone his normal route, but after speaking with his mother off the phone, he packed a rushed duffel bag and checked if there was a faster route on his way out the door, car keys clenched between his teeth.

His phone had approximated his arrival time to be 2:12AM, a mere three hour drive, but hadn’t accounted for the hours of traffic he had to endure. Apparently midnight is prime time for semi trucks to be hauling merchandise on the exact highway he turned into—why no one felt the need to tell him this, he doesn't know. Iwaizumi regretted ever straying from his original route, the exact course that would’ve gotten him to his destination an hour ago. He could be home by now, or better yet, knocked out in bed.

But that doesn’t seem to be coming anytime soon, since look at where he is now—in the middle of fucking nowhere, no sign of civilization in sight aside from the lampposts marking the road every ten miles.

In the beginning of the trip, his eyes would light up at the lampposts, those metal protrusions like a waving flag in the distance, because what if there’s an exit sign next to it, finally releasing him from this unsolicited marathon?

So far, no such luck. But for situations like these, Iwaizumi reminds himself to count his blessings. 

For one, this radio station. 

After wading through the traffic and hitting the empty stretches of shoddy asphalt he’s speeding down now, he figured out soon enough in his scrolling that any of his usual stations suffered terrible bouts of static, the reception reacting similarly to his cell service—dead. No matter station he managed to dial, each one would inevitably ripple into static and immerse the car with distorted bits of songs or forecasts, forcing Iwaizumi to contemplate again why he took this route. He could drive in silence, but he can’t trust the hum of the engine to be the only thing that keeps him awake and distracted tonight. 

And boy, does this radio station fucking keep him awake.

In between the anchor’s self-driven debates and nonsensical rambling, the man switches into tangents faster than Iwaizumi can process what he just said a minute ago. It’s odd, the amount of times he takes the time to describe the weather every hour, not to mention the moments where he’ll scold himself for talking too loudly or far from the mic. How has he has not heard of a station this scatter-brained before? 

The sporadic flow frustrated Iwaizumi when he started tuning in, but now all he can muster is a dull sense of respect because it’s impressive a person can talk for this long by their lonesome. At least, he thinks the radio host is alone.

He’ll admit that it’s made him imagine the person behind the microphone, what they’re like when they’re not recording in a studio. If phone calls with him really will fluctuate in topics each time they speak or if they’re more subdued. If he’s ever seen them somewhere mundane and just going through the motions. Iwaizumi doesn’t remember the last time he’s learned so much about a singular person, the last time probably being in high school. 

Speaking of which…

‘…and then the burgers there are de-lic-ous! Scrumptious—ones I would gladly vouch for. If I vouch for it, trust in your friendly host and stop by their diner. Servers are quite the hoot too as my friend would say. He’s a hoot too, but don’t tell him I said that—his ego’s way too big for the size of his head. Anyways—for any late-time drivers on the road, just looking at those servers can lift your energy levels tenfold, guaranteed and no refunds. Late one night, when I might’ve consumed more caffeine than recommended, I asked one what their secret was, you know, because they’re so up and bubbly even at the crack of dawn and, I swear, they looked me dead in the eye and said they were charged by batteries, batteries! I should’ve asked for more details—like are they rechargeable batteries or is it more of a cord to outlet situation…but I’m rambling. Either way it was a metaphor most likely, but folks I do love a good conspiracy theory…’

If he was any more exhausted than he is now, Iwaizumi reckons he’d get dizzy. 

Exhausted or not he supposes credit’s due where it’s due; this person has managed to maintain the balance between mildly entertaining and wildly mind-numbing, thus being his sole companion throughout the duration of this poorly-lit drive, beginning to hopeful end. Who knew self-driven rants and proclivities for story-telling were the traits he wanted in a broadcast.

But no broadcast can distract him from the road just quite yet. 

Another lamppost is in the distance and he feels half-inclined to groan. He can’t remember how many he’s passed so far and he’s not planning on counting.

Instead as his eyes search for the time, he hears it. 

_Ding Ding. Ding Ding._

Iwaizumi feels his breath edge onto a curse before the situation even dawns on him. 

Steering to the side, Iwaizumi shifts the truck to park and sees the red gas sign blinking back at him in rapid intervals. 

Of course it would be tonight—just his luck. 

His car was bound to run out of fuel by now anyways. It’s not really a problem; driving long distances isn’t new to him, especially ones that cross through empty lots of deserts where gas stations are sparse and dispersed unevenly, so he always stores a full jerrycan of gasoline handy in the cargo bed, tied down by jumper cables for safe keeping right next to the first aid kit. So it’s not as if he’s not prepared. But tonight of all nights his car had to run dry. 

The inkling of optimism that he would reach the exit sign before this happened popped and deflated with a pathetic wheeze. This is worse than the fucking lampposts. 

“Well,” Iwaizumi sighs, slipping a pair of leather gloves, “no one’s going to do it but me.” 

Gloves snug, he leans over and collects a flashlight from the glovebox, gripping it harder than he needs to as if it’ll prevent him from exiting. Before he has time to dread, Iwaizumi throws the door open and slams the door behind him to retain the heat because, 

“Fuck, it’s cold.” 

The news hasn’t talked about anything other than the low temperatures for the past week, the anchors’ reminders to stock up echoing during his morning routines, but ‘low temperatures’ is underestimating Mother Nature because it’s absolutely glacial. Just this morning, he stepped out to take in the trash, only to find it rooted to the ground, inches of ice slating the sides as if claiming the bin. Guess he can’t complain, it’s January after all, but—fuck, can nobody stop him from any chance of doing so. 

Flicking the light on, Iwaizumi shrugs his windbreaker around his ears and scrunches his face down from the brunt of the frost, the wind prickling on skin like needles. It’s not snowing yet, so perhaps it could’ve been worse. 

His feet drag until he reaches the back and goes about undoing the latches on the tarp that covers the cargo bed. It takes a few tries, the gloves offering limited dexterity, but Iwaizumi figures frostbite is objectively worse than a few fumbled attempts. 

Finally folding the tarp halfway, he can see the telltale red peek out from under and makes quick work of the belt tying the can down, heaving it over the side. Just like he remembered it, full and heavy. The liquid inside sloshes back and forth as he rounds back around the gas cap, setting the can down to rest to unscrew the cap. With it removed, he tilts the can’s nozzle into it and the gasoline starts trickling in.

Hard part is done. Now it’s the waiting game. 

Since Iwaizumi still has no way of telling how far his destination is, his cell service unable to work like he paid for it should, he reasons that he’ll fill his meter up till the last possible drop, lest he leave the comfort of his heated vehicle for another dreaded gasoline refill. Besides the piercing wind numbing the tip of his nose red, Iwaizumi doesn’t quite fancy the idea of being out in the open more than he has to. 

Cause’ even though he likes to say he’s familiarized himself with these long night trips, he can’t deny that empty stretches of road that seem to go for miles on end is still the stuff of nightmares. In a world where regulations and rules are held religiously, out here it almost feels like the law doesn’t apply, like it’s grabby fingers can’t stretch as far as the road can run. It’s the crawling sensation that nips at the back of his neck—not fully being able to discern what’s out there in the dark and, more importantly, what they want. Even as a kid, bundled in the backseat on the way back from a relative’s, he would peer out the windows and compare the shadows to the maw of a great beast, the way it envelops the asphalt on either side, stalking and poised.

The pitch black surroundings are enough to raise goosebumps; however the dead silence sure comes close second in that regard. He’s become accustomed to hearing the crickets or dogs barking at night that the tangible silence is the most jarring thing he’s had the displeasure of hearing. Feeling like it’s more harmful than beneficial, Iwaizumi flicks the flashlight off and pockets it alongside his hand. 

‘Suffer now so you don’t have to later’, as Iwaizumi’s father always said. His old man would throttle him if he saw him so anxious. The thought of it makes him huff and a wrinkle turn up in his eyebrow. He shakes free of it and opts to rub his finger on the flashlight’s switch, back and forth. 

As if the timing couldn’t pick a worse moment, Iwaizumi’s shoulders hike up at the blare of static.

‘—_bzrrpt_ and then—_zzrptt_ minding my own coffee doesn’t seem to get the message across because the guy continues to lounge in the booth, eyeing me and—oh! He would keep kicking the leg of the table in the center and I can’t tell you how many times he kicked my foot instead, claiming it was an accident, the nasty liar…'

Iwaizumi shudders and it’s not the wind. 

“Just the station,’ he repeats, “that fuckin’ station.” 

Today is an incident after another it seems. 

The air whistles through his teeth in white puffs of smoke, measured inhales and exhales passing on his tongue, as he soothes his spiked pulse, tension slowly draining from his muscles. Angling the nozzle, the gasoline tunnels back in. 

The host continues to ramble on when he reasons he probably left the keys in the accessory position, allowing the radio to be on while the engine isn’t. A pat to his pockets confirms it. 

It comes out crystal clear through the windows and stirs the quiet of the night:

‘…mammoth-sized! No kidding, I saw that two-eyed weasel with my own eyes—and if I saw it with my own eyes, it must be true. Remember the saying—trust in your friendly host! If that doesn’t excuse me from throwing his keys in the trash, I don’t know what will. Even if I didn’t see it, the guy had been suspicious from day one and I have solid intuition and knowledge in most things that is everything. That includes my knack for constellations and the paranormal. Oh, I imagine your confusion already—you thought I was a nerd, but not a space nerd? Listener, I thought we were friends. Not just friends for show, but actual people who’s bonded through deep conversation and secrets, ya know? Any who, we can discuss our relationship later because the stars…’

God, standing out here really puts things into perspective for him. Like how did he simultaneously drive and listen to this man’s continuous stream of consciousness? He had the driving to as a task to focus on, but he doesn’t remember his tolerance being this high. 

‘…never graduated university, but if I had, I’d be obligated and free to annoy others with a degree in astronomy and related space sciences. Sounds vague because it is vague—you folks don’t get to peer into my personal life that much. But because I didn’t graduate, no official credentials to show here, I’ll spare you the unnecessary tidbits and dramatics to skip to the fun stuff— very specific stars and constellations! Just like in the movies, huh, what do you say? Take my hand, c’mon take it…’

With a gurgle, the jerrycan empties of the remaining diesel—music to Iwaizumi’s ears. 

A few minutes more and he would be entertaining the thought of frostbite on his cheeks, he thinks. Back at the cargo bed, he stows away the container in its proper place, fastening all the appropriate latches and such because even in this kind of weather, Iwaizumi was taught to follow routine. He dislikes it in this kind of environment, but hell, he’s not losing all his supplies because he forgot to secure a few buckles.

He locates the red strap when his ears focus back on the station:

‘…outright spectacular! That would be my favorite, but it’s considered a Summer Constellation, so sorry to anyone who’s dying to see it. You could look it up, but the pictures can’t compare to the real deal, surely. But it’s okay, it’s okay—I know you want to hear about one you can see, since that’s…well, all of the fun of constellations! Let me think of a cute one, cute, cute, outright adorable…I know! To anyone still awake, make sure to slide down your nearest window or just tilt your head back and take a second to peer at the night sky. If you’re in my area, the Lepus Constellation should be bright tonight, also nicknamed the Hare Constellation! That’s cute isn’t…’ 

The Lepus Constellation, huh? Iwaizumi’s fastening a cord on the tarp when his head does tilt back, just for a second. His head jerks back to the task at hand when he realizes he doesn’t even know what to look for. Just on cue:

‘…there’ll be the rabbit’s body and two dots for the ears—constellations are like those connect-the-dots worksheets, except these you have to use your imagination more. A lot more. I could describe it as the letter ‘H’ even, but the lines are more crooked. You can envision it right? I’m sending telepathic waves through the radio now, I hope you receive them—I really want you to see it…Hold on, wait, since I’m sending them through the radio does that mean they’re electromagnetic waves now?!...'

This time he does spare a minute to look up above. Despite his lack of interest in constellations, he has to admit the night skies back in the city doesn’t hold a dime to the ones here, free of smog and blinking lights, a nostalgic view to take in to say the least. If he stares long enough, Iwaizumi can almost visualize the mossy rocks and dew surrounding the forest clearing, his father kindling another fire a few feet away. There’s the coo of an owl somewhere above them, another one responding to the call further in thicket of trees, and a creek nearby coursing from the abundant rainfall earlier; he had gone fishing there and his father had to steady him from toppling into the river on multiple occasions, the rapids stronger than usual. His unlaced boots are resting next to him, his feet aching at the day’s labor, but it doesn’t matter because his stomach is satiated and his skin warm honey. He can almost smell the smoke now and knows it’ll already be absorbing into his garments. 

Except the smoke is blowing out of his mouth and it’s not anywhere near the appropriate season or environment for camping unless you like pitching tents in frigid, dry wastelands. He didn’t go fishing that day, haven’t gone in years really, and his stomach is barely clinging to the leftover takeout that he managed to down before the phone call. There aren’t any owls, not much of anything that resembles life aside from whatever might be lurking in the shadows and the musings of a questionable radio host.

His old man certainly isn’t here. 

‘…always next time! But anyways, to the people who did go out to look at the stars, here’s your reminder to stop gazing and go back inside! It’s colder than the tundra and I won’t be responsible for your injuries if you so choose to linger! Can’t have that on my conscience…’

One more check over and he hops back in, instantly melting in the seat. His hand twists the keys, rumbling the ignition, and relishes in the sensation of his skin thawing from the frost, the heater cranked to the highest setting. 

Winter really isn’t his season, he thinks, whipping off the gloves. 

Crowding his palms in front of the vents, he glances outside, noticing his headlights flooding the path a few feet ahead. Now that his gas is filled, he supposes that he can start driving again. 

Down this road for an unknown number of miles. Down the road that will lead to the pastures belonging to his childhood home. Where the houses are farther and the people are closer—another saying that his father would quip out, particularly whenever he couldn’t visit home. 

It’s this moment when his shoulders sag, eyes heavy, and without the adrenaline from before, his limbs start to feel like dead weight. Iwaizumi reclines back in the seat, hand resting on the gear shift as his finger thumps against the handle, a nervous twitch he hasn’t grown out of. 

Suffer now so you don’t have to later, he chants. 

‘…can’t believe I forgot! I have such bad timing, maybe I shouldn’t even tell you six listeners at all, I’m a terrible host. Just teasing, there’s probably only one of you here, isn’t…’ 

He musters enough resolve to grip the lever more firmly, but still can’t shift it to drive.

‘…okay I will, but only because you guys are sweet. So, ahem. What I was going to mention is none other than, drum roll, the Lepus constellation! I told you earlier that looking at the stars is all of the fun, but I may have lying because a little bit of the fun is knowing the myths and legends behind it! It won’t make up all the fun, but I will admit it’s kind of nice, looking at the different constellations and knowing there’s a story that makes up the lines and points.—’

Suffer now Hajime. You should get home. 

‘—I mean, some don’t have a myth, and actually this is one of them that don’t. It’s more of a little story or a tag that everyone agrees on and has been retelling it that way ever since. I think it was slapped onto the constellation a little carelessly, but whatever. It’s associated whenever you see the hare.—’

You need to get home. No need for theatrics or reason, just go. 

‘—Apparently, the saying is that, ever since the rabbit was born into the world, it immediately became prey to all the other animals. Helpless, it lived on the run constantly and eventually grew weary from the chase. Who wouldn’t in that kind of situation? It took centuries to pass before the celestial beings pitied the rabbit and made the decision that once the rabbits passed on, they would be reborn as stars, free to roam the skies. They would be safe above the very world that hunted them.—’ 

Another glimpse of the time reads 5:04AM. It should urge him, turn on some kind of switch, but it doesn’t, rather prodding at a pit in his chest. 

‘—And that’s how the Lepus Constellation supposedly came to be. Sweet, huh? I’d like to say that’s the end of the tale, but it isn’t.—

Earlier it was a fine distraction, but now the radio’s just a nuisance; scrolling the volume down until it’s a whisper, Iwaizumi shuts his eyes and just focuses on relieving the pit of pressure.

‘—Like the beings promised, they granted hares eternal life in the night sky. This is a blessing, right? All rabbits would escape from the torment. However, there was a fatal element that wasn’t guaranteed in the skies: security. Soon enough, as rabbits enjoyed their first few flights in the skies, Orion, son of Poseidon, learned of this decree and, well, if you should know at least one thing about him—it’s his avid obsession with hunting for sport.—'.

The spark flickers that fatigue isn’t the only thing preventing him from driving, but Iwaizumi snuffs it out before it takes tangible life. Stop thinking—never done you good, Hajime. 

‘—In mythology, he’s known for being a giant hunter who declared he would kill every animal possible. So, you’d imagine that once the hares reigned in the skies, Orion couldn’t resist temptation, not able to let the opportunity slip. He’d even take his hunting dogs, the constellations Canis Major and Minor, with him and pass the time like that. This is why when you see the Lepus Constellation, you’ll also see the Orion Constellation ever so close, the god’s feet right above the hare as if waiting to strike.—'

In the heat, he shivers and kneads his palms against his eyes, pushing until he sees stars of his own. 

‘—That’s it. I know, not ideal. The rabbit gets freed from the world below, only to be in the same situation in the skies—forever this time. To constantly be hunted and on the run. Wow, that’s not much of a life…’

With a controlled exhale and another push, Iwaizumi whispers aloud as if reaffirming the situation. 

“No one’s going to do it but me.”

The engine rumbles as if responding. 

He whispers it once more and one more time in his head before reaching for the gear shift, this time tugging it into each increment, letting go when it reaches drive. 

‘…It’s mean spirited that a constellation was made for that purpose, to only serve to be someone’s prey for game. Think about it—there’s so many constellations that celebrate the birth of new inventions or the many gods’ achievements for the world, and then, there’s this one that plays like an ironic tragedy…’

The tires roll onto the asphalt, the gravel crunching underneath the compression, and Iwaizumi lurches against the steering wheel when his foot pushes on the brake pedal a little too hard. He bumps his chin in the process, but he thinks he can’t bring himself to care as he leans down to rest his forehead on it. There’s a few seconds where his head’s blank, his nerves frazzled but not fried, before his eyes dart towards the center console, remembering an old pack of cigarettes nestled in the corner just waiting to be lit. 

It’s an easy out, a soothing one that can alleviate the remaining frustration, smooth out the wrinkles. No one would see and he has no doubts this habit of his will die on his tongue.

Instead, with a huff and a disappointment that seeps into that growing pit in his chest, Iwaizumi peels himself off the wheel and cushions his back. 

‘…Well, as much as I’m arguing, mythology isn’t the happiest of writing, my dear listeners. Nor is some stories you expect to be. But, I don’t know—the story around the rabbit gets me riled up.—’

Stepping on the gas, his mind idly wonders if his mother is pacing her bedroom, too worried for sleep to overtake. 

‘—I guess cause if I were to be in that situation, pushed into a corner constantly, poked with a stick one too many times, well, even as a rabbit—'

Iwaizumi doesn’t trust himself anymore and turns the volume higher than he’s had it before, venturing further on.

‘—I would probably rip into someone’s throat…’

Deeper into the maw of a great beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive been lurking here for awhile and had an idea.  
this is my first fic so hopefully the story will make sense as the chapters come.  
thanks for coming.


	2. Signals Go Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first glance his house is far too familiar a sight.

The motel doesn’t have a coffee maker. Nor does it have a lightbulb in the overhead fixture.

His neighbor might as well be doing construction for the way the noise drills into his head, and Iwaizumi can only blame it for waking him up, in addition to the sliver of sunlight peeking through the curtains. 

There’s also a crack in the ceiling, the lines sprawled like webbing, and Iwaizumi wonders how it got there in the first place, much like how he woke up on a motel bed, his clothes sticking to him with residual sweat, his boot dangling off his foot, the other one sprawled by the bed alongside his duffel bag.

Sitting up, he scratches his head to recollect the memories from hours ago, an entirety it feels like after deep sleep. After the gas refill, he had cruised down that road for what must’ve been thirty minutes when his foot stomped on the brakes, the seatbelt digging into his chest and compressing what air he had in him out in a choke. Two yellow eyes stared back at him in the middle of the pavement, his headlights illuminating a bushy tail waving back and forth. In his daze, Iwaizumi couldn’t distinguish whether it was a hallucination, an illusion conjured by his fatigue, and accordingly honked his horn once, fortunate to see the all too real coyote dash to the left until it was out of sight, hidden and protected by the shadows. 

So there is something living out here. 

It isn’t his first time seeing a coyote, but it was plenty for a cord in Iwaizumi’s judgment to snap, practically take control of his limbs, and swerve into a motel’s parking lot he nearly passed by twenty minutes later. The ’24-hour’ neon advertisement seemed to gleam brighter as he approached the window, memories of an older gentleman passing over a ring of keys resurfacing from the inky depths.

With a yawn, his jaw stretching with an audible click, he pats around his pockets before sweeping the bed, finding his phone flat underneath the pillow. Cell reception isn’t working, still refusing to maintain a bar longer than five seconds, when he tosses it to the side and does a double take. 

What the motel lacks it makes up for in tenfold in the form of a little white card on his bed stand that reads ‘Free WiFi’. Iwaizumi can almost feel his mood do a 180. 

He plucks his phone and inputs the written network and password. It’s taking a longer time than expected, the arrows only a third of the way filled, and Iwaizumi is starting to feel the residual sweat dry on his skin sticky. 

Peeling off his thermal top, the sweat making it an even more arduous task in his groggy state, Iwaizumi finds his footing and trudges to the adjoined washroom to haphazardly splash the drowse away.

He’s drying off with a towel and is plainly made aware that the WiFi connected, his phone vibrating through what must be tens of messages. Iwaizumi unlocks the screen and bypasses the notifications, automatically navigating to the contacts page. Pressing the call button, he drops back on the bed and shuts his eyes, preparing.

The dial tone clicks off after a beat. 

“Oh,” a languid voice answers, “so you’re alive after all.”

Not exactly the person he would’ve guessed to answer. Iwaizumi sighs, crossing his arm over his eyes.

“Where’s Mom?” 

“Went to sleep about two hours ago.” 

It’s a little over noon judging by the digital clock and Iwaizumi’s eyebrows wrinkle.

“I can hear your distress from here,” the voice hums. “Auntie was waiting for you last night but fell asleep around three. Then woke up around seven, spiraled into guilt for sleeping, and eventually fell back asleep after waiting again.”

Wincing, Iwaizumi sits back up, picking at the linens. “Was it bad?” 

There’s a pause. “No, I’m exaggerating. She paced the room a bit, but I distracted her with Monopoly.” 

“Monopoly?” Iwaizumi didn’t even know they still had one in the house—he must’ve been 11 when he last played a round. “The board game?”

“Auntie’s amazing at Monopoly. I thought I was good, but she’s got me beat 1-5.”

“I don’t know what to do with that—"

His sentence cuts short when his neighbor slams their front door, the force of it rattling his own. The neighbor’s silhouette passes over the curtain, the shadow glimpsing over Iwaizumi’s prone figure.

“Hajime? You there?”

Iwaizumi waits for the booming footsteps to pass further down, the metal echoing on contact, before saying, “Yeah, I am. Just—anyways, thanks Issei.” He feels the need to repeat, “Really, thanks—I owe you.”

Iwaizumi hears a clang through the receiver and Matsukawa sounds a little farther away. 

“Just get here soon and we’ll be even,” he calls out, the sound of what he guesses could be dishes being placed in the background. “As much as I enjoyed it, I don’t think I have the energy to play another game.”

And with that, Iwaizumi wraps up the call with a promise to buy him dinner, ignoring the growing pit in his chest in favor of getting ready to head out. 

Refreshed by some deep sleep, he doesn’t have an excuse to wallow in his feelings like he had yesterday. It sort of gives him second-hand embarrassment at the memory, but he shoves it down and shoves his uncovered foot in the boot. 

He crouches down to unzip the duffel bag, fitting his head through the first top he finds when the stomping from before continues. 

Similarly, the galvanized metal outside do nothing to muffle the clamor, rattling his door on its hinges once again as they pass. The commotion this time is accompanied with two voices varying of tenor, arguing it sounds like, and the slamming of his neighbor’s door again. 

After a few minutes, Iwaizumi figures it’s a good time to leave, not particularly interested in eavesdropping on a squabble. 

Bundled up, the handle of the duffel bag gripped in hand, he picks the ring of keys off the bed and pushes the door open. 

Much like yesterday, the crisp air is vying to dry the insides of his throat parched. Fortunately with the noon sun overhead, the slight bouts of breeze don’t bear the same sting as yesterday, and Iwaizumi will take all the blessings he can. 

Iwaizumi steps out onto the pavement and shuts the door behind him, turning the key to lock it. As he pulls it out, he notices a man in his peripheral vision scrolling through his phone while leaning back next to his neighbor’s window, presumably the second voice from earlier. Iwaizumi’s not too keen on making conversation with the stranger, disappointed that there was people still out here, so upon making eye contact, he gives a curt nod and keeps his head down, passing him.

“Hey, mind giving me the WiFi password?” 

Iwaizumi wishes he could pretend he didn’t hear the question but he pauses in his step a beat too long for him to be considered deaf. He remembers the tangle of earbuds he stuffed into the duffle bag’s front pocket and regrets not putting them in earlier. 

“It’s just that I forgot to check what the new one was. Help me out, can’t you?”

Turning his head with a subdued sigh, he recites the card from his room and would’ve left if not for the other waving his hand, gesturing for Iwaizumi to come closer.

“Thanks, you’re a real hero,” the stranger starts, “I can’t tell you how bored I was out here—Gramps keeps changing the password, you see.”

Albeit the confusion, Iwaizumi idly nods his head in place of words, his foot twisting to leave when the stranger drawls on. 

“But I don’t see why I need to take care of a rampaging drunkard,” he whines, brushing sandy blond bangs back, “I got my own stuff to do, yeah? Never mind my full workload—I might as well start counting the number of holes on the floor if my time means so little.” 

Iwaizumi can say the same thing—why should he listen to this stranger’s complaining? He’s not good with people like these, the talkative ones that can’t take the hint to stop, and Iwaizumi figures it’s a good time to cut in. 

“Listen, I need to go—” 

“You’ve been sleeping till’ noon, haven’t you? You look like the type to self-destruct when you don’t get your hours in,” he says, as if it isn’t an odd thing to say to a person you’ve just met not more than ten seconds ago. 

Is this guy just socially inadept?

Iwaizumi scratches the back of his neck and goes along with it. It won’t take long.

“I—well,” he sighs, “isn’t everybody that type? Everybody needs rest.”

The stranger pockets his phone and checks his fingernails. “Some hide it better than others. I’m just curious if you’re the type to barely hold it together.” 

That’s not typically what first meetings entails—hell, he didn’t even ask the easy ‘how are you doing?’ question or ‘what shitty weather we’re having’ statement. 

“I don’t think that’s something you can tell from a person you’ve just met,” he idly says. 

Looking up, a lazy grin grows on the stranger’s lips as his shoulders rise up and down in a sudden fit of chuckles. Iwaizumi doesn’t think he’s said anything funny, so that must mean this guy is a bit off. That opinion is further fortified when the stranger responds:

“You’re right. I’ll tell you sometime later when I find out.”

Iwaizumi grips the duffel bag’s strap and decides he wants to go now, declaring it frankly. 

“Well, I should go now.”

“You can keep me company for a little bit. Ain’t like you have anything to do,” he comments, that same lazy grin perched on his face. Under the shade of the awning, the stranger kicks off the wall and shifts so that his shoulder rests against the surface, his front facing Iwaizumi fully. “I still want to talk a little.” 

He feels his eyebrow twitch. In favor of saying something he shouldn’t, he focuses on his appearance and the wrinkles in his clothing. 

In contrast to Iwaizumi’s bundled attire, the stranger lacks any warm clothing, a too big T-shirt dwarfing his torso, reaching the top of his thighs, and a pair of slacks ill-fitting all the same. His red flip flops are a comedic comparison compared to his own clunky boots and Iwaizumi wonders if the stranger’s already too numb to notice any potential frostbite nip at his toes. He already knows the cold got to his head with the way he’s acting. 

The stranger’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry about me—I’m immune to the cold. Plus, Gramps has the heater on blast inside and I couldn’t be bothered to put on a coat. You understand.”

Iwaizumi does not understand. 

“I shouldn’t be out long anyways. The drunk lunatic is gonna knock out soon—on his own or with some persuasion, it doesn’t really matter.” He yawns. “Point is, they’re quiet and I get to go back inside.”

As if on cue, a crash sounds out from the room. The stranger doesn’t acknowledge it, not even a flinch, and instead leans in a little closer as if sharing a secret. 

“Where did you say you were from again?”

Iwaizumi edges away. 

“Just passing through.” 

It might’ve been the angle of the light, but Iwaizumi thought he saw the stranger frown for a split second, the same lazy grin appearing as if it never left. “That’s exciting. Where you off to?” 

He grits his teeth and inhales. “Visiting a relative.”

“Any occasion?”

“Nothing special.” 

“Wow,” the stranger exaggerates, “they all say that. C’mon be more creative.”

Iwaizumi changes his mind; he’s never been more sure that this guy is not only catching his cues to leave but stomping on them right in front of him. It’s almost like he’s playing with him, getting whatever entertainment he gets from making him irritated cause there’s no way he doesn’t know how much of a pain in the ass he’s being in this moment. Iwaizumi can turn tail and walk away, but it feels like giving up, losing a fight of wills with a person he’s never met before, but that’s for another time to examine. 

The stranger’s looking at him with all the patience of a monk. A bothersome monk. Or maybe, more fitting of a comparison, the fox statue at the shrines, leering down at him and following his every move with slanted eyes and a smile hiding something he should know. 

“How long you staying around here?” 

In contrast, Iwaizumi’s patience can only last so long and he can’t find the energy to care for societal manners anymore. “My relative’s expecting me. I should go,” for extra urgency he adds, “now.”

It’s as if he hadn’t said anything and this was all a dream because the stranger’s still staring at him with that same stupid grin; he wonders if his face actually got stuck by smiling for too long. 

“I see,” the stranger says after the pause, “I hope you get to wherever you need to go soon. Your relative must be missing you.” 

Iwaizumi swats away the sudden need to rub the back of his neck, goosebumps raising over skin, and doesn’t question the sudden compliance.

The stranger waves and Iwaizumi doesn’t look back to see what else he does, taking the opportunity to hurry down the stairs. 

Although the stranger seemed sane enough, sensible enough to be tasked with looking after a supposed drunkard anyhow, the guy doesn’t sit well with him and Iwaizumi doesn’t need more reason than that to get as far away as possible. 

He passes by the parking lot, his truck in the same spot where he left it and steps up to the lobby’s window to return the keys. Rather than the older gentleman from last night, he raps against the glass and startles to see the stranger from earlier emerge from the other side.

Iwaizumi freezes. 

The stranger doesn’t say anything, choosing to lean on his elbow and scan Iwaizumi up and down. They’re the same pair of eyes, no eyelash out of place or angle curved too far, but there’s a distinct feeling behind them, an intent separate from the ones he previously saw. 

It’s disinterest.

“Wow,” the stranger says in a tone bereft of any excitement. Iwaizumi is still wondering how he got down here in the same pace— maybe there’s another exit down he didn’t know of. The stranger starts tapping a rhythm on the countertop with his knuckles, looking at him with a new twitch of his lips and huffs. 

“He must be fucking bored,” the stranger mutters. Iwaizumi’s eyebrows furrow, a question on his tongue, as the window slides back abruptly after, locking with a click. There’s a moment where the air is silent and still until the door connected to the side of the booth swings open, the stranger passing him to climb up the same stairs he just descended. 

When he left his room, Iwaizumi didn’t surmise returning motel keys to be such a task. He feels a little dumbfounded now—what is he supposed to do now? 

His old man never had any quotes for moments like these. 

Watching the back of the stranger get farther and farther, he’s tempted to leave the keys on the sill of the window and get in his car. 

The window slides open again as if hearing his plea. 

Instead of another identical face, the older gentleman from last night greets him with a nod. And thank god for that, otherwise Iwaizumi would be tempted this was really a dream. 

“One moment,” the gentleman says before thrusting his head out the window, startling Iwaizumi into stepping back a few, and hollering, “Osamu, that’s no way to treat a guest!”

With a name attached to a face, Iwaizumi turns his head to see Osamu halfway up the stairs pause to shrug his shoulders and continue to the top of the steps. Looking at him, he’s dressed much more appropriately for the weather and Iwaizumi feels a little silly at how late the realization set in, a sense of relief trickling down his neck. 

What were the chances—they’re fucking twins.

“That rascal,” the older gentleman murmurs as he retreats into the booth. He’s shaking his head with the practice of someone who’s too used to doing it, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth pinched, and mutters some more too quietly to decipher. 

As if remembering, he clears his throat and gestures to Iwaizumi again, face smooth of any signs of irritation from the outburst. It’s almost impressive how his expression morphs so quickly. 

“Good afternoon, young man,” the owner starts, wringing his hands, “This isn’t quite how I wanted things to unfold, but I suppose I’ll make do with what I have and say my sorry. As the proud owner of this little establishment, I feel terrible about his behavior.” 

Although Iwaizumi was born and raised here, he doesn’t ever recall a motel being on the outskirts of town. Perhaps it’s just a new face or a mishap of memory, but the town doesn’t get enough tourists or business to front a motel, even for the summer seasons. The owner’s pride for the place is evident and doesn’t seem to stem from just a year or two’s opening, no—this motel must’ve been here for decades. 

“I apologize again, you must feel insulted.” 

At the expense of a poor man’s conscience, Iwaizumi feels compelled to reassure him. 

“It’s no problem,” Iwaizumi offers. 

It’s no problem—good job Hajime, you’ve really outdone yourself with just three words. 

His arm’s jerking to bring out the keys, anything to leave this place faster lest he wither from embarrassment, but his hand pauses as the owner sighs. 

“He’s normally very polite—oh look at me, bombarding you with an excuse.”

Iwaizumi tries again. “No, really, he wasn’t being rude.”

And he—Osamu, his name was— wasn’t. Cryptic, probably, because who just looks at you and comments about someone else’s boredom and shuts you out a blink later, but Iwaizumi isn’t going to argue and prolong his stay any further. Besides, the grandpa at the window looks awfully remorseful for his grandson’s antics and doesn’t think he can deny him the reassurance.

Locating the roster, the owner busies his hands at the bindings. “It’s just that we don’t have many visitors crossing into our little town. I don’t want his manners to taint your opinion of the rest of us—we’re quite the friendly folk.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t know what to say, so instead nods his head in what he hopes portrays a level of understanding and makes the effort to look nice. 

Opening the journal, the owner flips to today’s date as he continues, “But really, he’s not so rude. My guess is that brother of his and snark is rubbing off on him—have you met the other rascal?”

“Unfortunately,” slips out and Iwaizumi thinks he might not be as well-rested as he thought he was because his mother did not raise him like that—how did that come out of his mouth. Suddenly, he’s getting a few slaps to the shoulder as a hearty chuckle rings in his ear, reverberating through his head like bass drums, all the way down in his chest. 

“Unfortunately is right!” he cackles, “If he wasn’t my beloved grandson, I would be hard pressed to kick him out every week! Right to the dusty curb!” 

It takes another cackle to realize how similar the owner is to his own grandpa, the similarity starting at his thunderous boom of a laugh and the smile lines etched around his mouth. He smells of robust bourbon and looks of utter pride and smiling eyes whenever he remembers his grandsons fondly and Iwaizumi feels a twinge of serenity at the sight. It takes another hiccup of laughter for Iwaizumi to wipe the semblance away when he realizes the similarity ends with the latter and knows his grandpa much too well to compare this happy man with his.

Iwaizumi feels much more tired than before and waits patiently for the owner to quiet down, his chuckles dying into hiccups of air, as the gentleman claps his hands. “Well, I don’t mean to keep you here forever. It’s about time you get on out of here.”

Digging into his pockets, Iwaizumi produces the keyring, a green sticker that reads ‘18’ labeled on both sides, and places them in the awaiting hand. 

“Room 18,” the owner checks his name off in blue ink. “There you are.”

With another signature, Iwaizumi’s energy depletes as if he had never slept. 

The gentleman shakes his hand. 

“Welcome to town. Hope to see you around, young man.”

Iwaizumi nods. 

“Oh and do ignore the impression my grandsons have made—they really are kind where it counts.”

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything and walks away. 

One foot’s in the car when he sees the twins up on the landing in front of the same door, their conversation too quiet to make out. Side by side, it’s no wonder he couldn’t distinguish them by first glance, mirroring the same details stamped since birth. Judging by the windbreaker, Osamu has his arms crossed and shoulders rigid, the picture somewhat reminiscent of his mother when she would scold him about broken windows and late curfews. The nosy one is taking the expression in stride it seems, waving his hand (he fucking loves waving his hand, doesn’t he?) and steps up to the railing, forearms leaning against metal, when his eyes catch his with a certain air of glee.

Especially from this angle, that lazy grin of his is forced and practiced and doesn’t alleviate the headache that’s creeping in deeper every second he stays here. It’s an itching akin to the pit in his chest that’s found a place nestled right between his lungs and heart, festering into something inexplicably too caustic for simple anxiety, his heart pulsating too fast for someone considered healthy. Though, the latter he shouldn’t ruminate for too long since when was all of this considered healthy? 

Fuck Hajime, this was a mistake coming back home. Maybe an accident, if at all a poorly made decision. He hears the rattle of cigarettes against the carton, a click away in the compartment and occupies his hands with the steering wheel, a mantra on his lips before he knows he’s reciting them. 

“No one’s going to do it but me.”

He eventually gets a grip when the air gets chillier and shuts the door, the scent of something sour carried on the breeze, and sees the clouds slowly take over the sun, shadows yawning over the parking lot asphalt and veiling the motel in a different tint much like wearing sunglasses to cover the incessant glare, muted in dark gunmetal blue.

Pulling out of the lot, he knows he shouldn’t but can’t help one last glimpse. In the rearview mirror, they reflect each other now, Osamu joining his brother on the railing, and the semblance is unsettlingly uncanny. 

They really do look like those fox statues. 

* * *

Another blessing he has yet to properly count: Matsukawa Issei. 

His cousin, less considered a cousin, but more a sibling he’s solemnly wished he had, is the same age as him, yet portrays a different age to him, more wise in his years. A friend close to heart but far in reach, choosing to stay back home rather than move to skyscrapers of blinking neon and blaring sirens to pursue his father’s career in law enforcement. Early dawns when Iwaizumi would be standing on the balcony, the mist from showers yet to cleaver down through storm clouds, he would find solace in Matsukawa’s weekly phone calls, diluting the worries that plagued his sleep until they became more of a lucid grey rather than the bleak ink that shared the hue that stained his eyebags, the same shade of old cigarette ash and tar. 

The days he worried about leaving his mother’s well-being to Matsukawa were far gone but replaced by clogging guilt that he even left in the first place. Sure, the money he mailed back each month were much higher than if he had stayed and worked for three months. And, again, sure, for all his guilt, Matsukawa’s his own adult now and not the dishonest type; if he had a problem with Iwaizumi moving and being relied on, he would be the first to voice his displeasure, hopefully rudely because that’s what Iwaizumi deserves. 

So when Iwaizumi pulls up onto the gravel driveway and spots Matsukawa sitting on the porch stairs, he thinks of the piles of responsibility and pressure he has no doubt pushed towards him and doesn’t know whether he’s overwhelmed into crying or to smile because it’s really him and not just a detached voice on a speaker. 

He doesn’t get enough time to be conflicted because Matsukawa’s walking towards him with a smile he hasn’t seen in years and the worries from before don’t matter. He’s barely out of the truck when Matsukawa yanks him out fully and wraps him in unyielding arms, gasoline, and the faint smell of lemon cleaner his mother likes to use for the windows in the house. He doesn’t hesitate and returns the hug back tight and belatedly wonders when the last time was he felt someone like this, his pulse thrumming to match someone else’s beat, and finds he sort of misses it. 

“Thought you would never show up,” Matsukawa says, the words of it tickling his ear. “A minute later and I was going to file you missing.”

He lets a beat pass to soak up the warmth and replies, “You really don’t have anything better to do, do you?”

“You would get the whole treatment,” he continues, undeterred in his spiel, “I would round up a team to search, only my best for you, and then eventually get the dogs to sniff your hiding spot out in two hours flat.”

Iwaizumi’s the first to detach himself. “They would never find me.”

Matsukawa holds onto his shoulder to keep him in arm’s length. “And I bet I could with my eyes closed.”

As Iwaizumi looks at him, Matsukawa looks back, wordlessly memorizing each other and cataloguing how time has changed them both, their faces worn more and exposed to the world’s terrors. It’s almost surreal to look at someone familiar after so long and be able to see dig up the same face from your childhood, and Iwaizumi squeezes Matsukawa’s shoulder and hopes it translates everything that he can’t form into words, the meaning and syllables of it hanging in his throat too ineloquent to describe the surge of sentiment. 

He knows that Matsukawa understands when he squeezes back.

“Welcome back home.”

And despite the dread and apprehension fueling the drive over, Iwaizumi feels sheepish at the comfort he does find in his surroundings, his trembling fingers and the ache for something to satiate his craving seemingly a thing of the past, replaced by a rooted source of relief that he couldn’t see earlier. 

Now that he’s back, the cherished things his home has to offer are finally in front of him, tangible and all too real for Iwaizumi to ignore it: the grand fields surrounding his home in an expanse that he could never measure, land that stretches for miles and miles; the thicket of forests lining his vision to the east, the tips of the ancient trees retaining their leaves even in winter and the nostalgic grounds for all his camping ventures; Issei, his support pillar for as long as he can remember, the sibling that he wishes he had and seamlessly became; his mother—

_His mother. _

It must show on his face because Matsukawa pats his shoulder and sidesteps him to pull out his duffel bag in the passenger seat, heaving the weight onto his own shoulder and out of Iwaizumi’s hands when he reaches for it. “Alright, time to get your ass inside—scoot.” 

On any other day, Iwaizumi thinks he would banter more, but today he follows obediently and strides up the rest of the driveway and stops at the stairs. There’s deep groves he wants to run his fingers over and paint peeling off in small slivers, the wood splintering in on the edges. The banisters are in the same state, weathered by rain and harsh seasons. He skips over the first step onto the second and can’t help the twitch of his lips when a yawning creak sounds out, and it’s almost like selfishly reaffirming the notion that everything is the same as he’s left it and nothing more will change. 

Except everything has changed or will continue to, and he can’t help but envision how he will cling onto old habits when they inevitably do. Almost like a fulfillment prophecy. 

He swings the door open and sees wet snouts and dark paws scratching at the screen door, swiping at the frame to greet the newcomer, one of them with the loud propensity for barking. Iwaizumi happily opens the separating door and is rushed by three dogs of varying statures but of equal curiosity, his knees cracking as he crouches down to pet each one, offering a hand to those eager to smell. Although not unfamiliar, he’s only ever seen these faces through pictures and short video clips sent through text messages, all three dogs adopted by Matsukawa throughout the years—for when times get lonely, as he had reasoned over the phone calls. It’s not like he needed to be persuaded, Iwaizumi’s quirked lips enough of a sign to indicate his love for the creatures, but he never said otherwise in case Matsukawa stopped sending the videos. 

“They’re a sweet bunch, each one of them,” Matsukawa bends over to rub behind one of the dog’s ears (was her name Cassie?). “Though, it did take about three months or so for Winston to love them too.” 

Winston, one of the two that he raised before he left for the city, the grumpiest, but most loyal coonhound he’s ever had the pleasure to meet and live alongside by. If a dog could hold a grudge, there’s no doubt that Winston would be the first to do so, remembering the cries and barks whistling through the air as Iwaizumi drove off to the city, never to come back until today. He too wonders how Winston has changed in his time gone, if his fur has turned grey with age yet and his energy softened. 

“Hey,” Matsukawa shocks him out of his daze and he realizes the other dogs had stopped encircling him in favor to sniff and prowl the grounds for intruders, “why don’t you go inside first? I’ll let the dogs back in when they’re finished.” 

After he doesn’t stand back up, Matsukawa adds on, “She should still be sleeping upstairs.” 

Iwaizumi nods and with one more glance back at the yard, the dogs rounding the scarce bushes and dead grass, he opens the screen door and takes a step inside. Similarly to the dogs, he’s immediately rushed by the smell and fragments of his childhood home. 

The door doesn’t fully click behind him, but Iwaizumi’s too focused on the entrance, noting all the details to memory and stunned at the sense of likeness it evokes within him, the parallels the real scene shares with the one ingrained in his head reeling like film, polished over the nights where he would close his eyes and relive the routines he would do in these very walls. 

To the left, there’s the picture frames hanging on the wall, three perfect squares in a neat row, each capturing a still image of the members of the household. He looks at the last one and estimates the boy in the picture to be around 10, baby fat still holding strong on his cheeks and an impish grin marking his lips. His fingers, a ‘V’ sign for victory held proudly, are covered in bandages from the disastrous experience rummaging through the American Holly bush, its leaves as pointed and sharp as a needle, when a volleyball became stuck in its grasp. Winston’s in the photo too, his snout rubbing against his bandages as though sensing the hurt behind them and Iwaizumi glances down to run his thumb over the raised skin on the side of his index finger, one of the cuts never disappearing and instead healing into a lifelong scar. Skipping over the middle, his mother’s sitting on the front porch from when they still had a rocking chair, her mouth hidden in the coffee mug, a shoddy one that he painted as a gift in kindergarten, too embarrassed and camera shy to ever show her smile outright. It was only the candid photos where the lens was able to capture her smile in its full glee, relaxed and free and a time when she was at peace. 

To the right, his shoe cushions against the rug as he skims the length of the side table, his finger coming clean of dust. There’s knick knacks lining the table, some trinkets bought or gifted for no reason other than to fill in empty space, and some baubles that he had slowly grown to hold a sentimental attachment towards. One such being the glass figurine he has cradled in his palm, the thing shaped to look like a couple linking arms, the movements exaggerated to resemble the iconic waltz. One innumerable day, Matsukawa had dragged him along to the post office for a quick drop off when he wandered and entered the gift shop next door to pass time. It wasn’t nearly the first time he’s been in there, but any mental stimulation other than the white walls and brown boxes so customary of the post offices was a refreshing welcome.

It was overly priced, as things tend to be in gift shops, and was sitting among plenty other trinkets that looked just like it, produced from the same mold. Nevertheless, it didn’t stop him from having it gift wrapped and sitting on the couch first thing the next morning, embellished with a discrete ribbon and just waiting for his mother to notice. He believed it was his mother being polite at first, her squeals and adoring eyes at the object, tracing the curves of it softly with her pinky finger as if afraid to shatter it, but after he had dropped in on his mother raving to her book club about it, he thought about going back to the gift shop and buying the whole stock, whatever it took to get her so happy, so animated. 

In the end, he never got to go back to the gift store. 

Setting it back down by the snow globe, Iwaizumi’s eyes catch his reflection in the long mirror above it and can’t help the surprise he expresses, his shoulders slowly relaxing from the short jolt. 

Is that what you look like? 

Matsukawa really has incredible restraint on his facial expressions to not have reacted to his appearance. Compared to the healthy young boy in the frames, staring back at him as though equally shocked, his skin tone is pallid, too sickly, too—

“Hajime?” 

A heat rears heavy behind his eyelids, chills running hot over his exposed ears, as he cranes his head, scaling the tan wallpaper all the way up to his mother at the top of the staircase, her eyes wide in disbelief, the shawl draping her arms falling lax to the floor. They both freeze for what feels like minutes, when Iwaizumi finds the nerve to clear his throat and shift his feet awkwardly as if he has the same control of them as in primary school, facing fully toward her now, his shoulders relaxed with the confidence he doesn’t feel. 

It’s with a shaky voice that Iwaizumi breaks the silence, a simple “I’m back,” uttering from his throat, and as delicate as a house of cards, everything comes falling down in a fell swoop.

The thought that he should meet her halfway doesn’t even process as his mother’s already enveloping him in her arms, smelling of lavender sprigs and everything that comes to his mind when he thinks of _mom_, and all else movement ceases aside from his own arms wrapping around her shoulders, no time to be taken aback with himself by how tightly he does so, and vouches in the moment to not let go like he did years ago. Even when he leans down, her short tufts of hair only manage to tickle his chin (when did she get so small?) and he’s overcome by how she feels so frail and gaunt in his arms (is she eating?). 

Crying comes easy to his mother he’s learned, sobbing at even the most predictable and overdone plots of dramas. However when you least expect it, her tears come sparingly as if knowing to space them out in case that moment never happens again, just like how she is now, her shoulders quaking as she attempts to reel in all her emotions that she believes will get the best of her and miss her relishing the feeling. Expect Iwaizumi knows his mother far too well and rubs his hand between the blades of her shoulders, back and forth, and back and forth, soothing her trembling and ignoring the tears seeping through his jacket, instead hushing her whimpers of ‘Hajime’ and ‘it’s you, it’s you’ over and over, a useless attempt at comforting a broken record he knows won’t stop, even when she does stop crying. 

“I’m home,” he tries. 

His mother sags against him, losing strength in her legs, and they both go down, slumped against the rug. 

“I’m home,” he repeats.

She lets out a wail and burrows her face further in his jacket. 

“I’m home.” 

And although the past few minutes had been spent re-acclimating, confirming what he knows to be the place that holds his best and worst memories, the impressions still fixed to raw nerves and supplemented by doses of cravings and occasional tremors, this is when the realization fully sets in, with his mother cradled in his arms and the crooked figure of his old man trapped in picture frames, that he is, undeniably and inevitably, _home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wheewwww. that was fun to write.


	3. Beginning Descent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hajime treads familiarity and something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Haven't updated this in awhile, but nonetheless I hope you enjoy.

“Twist this line around and pull it through the loop.”

A brief pause filters rainfall softly pattering against the tent roof. 

“L-Like this?” he stutters, jutting his hook closer. The blanket rustles around his waist with the movement. 

“Just like that,” the rougher voice affirms. Cautioning, he adds, “Don’t pull too tight. Otherwise the line won’t hold.” 

With fumbling fingers, Hajime lessens his grip, bringing his fingers closer together. He exchanges a glance with his father and nods. 

“Now,” his father continues, “loop the line through this loose section here and pull.” 

Hajime’s determined eyes flicker back and forth, from his father’s example to his own, eager to execute the movements as meticulous as his father had in segmented increments. 

This line goes from this side to the other. Slip through the bigger hole. And hold—

Under the glow of the fluorescent lantern, his fingers slip on the line’s end and stumbles on the procedure. In his effort to regain the line, he misplaces his fingers and tangles the knot in the wrong spot of the line. “I-I can fix this.” 

He pulls on the end of the thread as if it’ll untie itself, and instead the lines start to blend together, the end and beginning of the line indiscernible to the eye. The line pulls taut to reveal a balled knot with varying loops jutting out, nothing like the clean, segmented fishing line his father produced. 

Hajime deflates. 

The rainfall continues, filling in the silence, as his father sets his fishing line down on his lap. He picks up Hajime’s work from his hands and inspects it under the lantern’s light, twirling it between his fingers each way. The sheen of the thread catches on the light and makes the line shine as if covered in dew. 

“Hajime.” His voice seems to boom within the small confines of the tent. 

He averts his eyes as if it could shield him from his father’s shadow looming on the wall. The action does nothing to cool the burning behind his ears. 

“Give me the scissors.” 

Wordlessly, Hajime unlatches the toolbox next to him and wraps his palm around the blades. He places them in the waiting hand without another thought and waits. 

His father sighs. 

Another second passes and Hajime is starting to become antsy until his father blows a stream of air directly in his ear. Startled, Hajime looks up only to squawk as his father messes with his hair, rubbing the palms of his hands quickly back and forth. Hajime’s hands come up to swat the hands away to no avail as his father switches plans. With no mercy, the hands aim at his sides, forcing hiccups of laughter out of his chest and belly. 

In between short breaths, Hajime surrenders, yelping, “Dad, s-stop! Enough!”

“Oh, so my kid does have a voice,” his father guffaws, the hearty chuckle shaking his eardrums. 

Retracting his hands, his father smirks at his handiwork. “Well, maybe you’re not my kid anymore— you look more like a porcupine now,” he exclaims, flattening Hajime’s spiked hair. “Or,” he pauses, poking at his puffed, red cheeks. “maybe a chipmunk.”

“I’m not a chipmunk!” 

“Oh yeah?” his father questions. “A porcupine?”

Shaking his head, Hajime slaps his father’s arm with no strength. “Not that either!”

“You could’ve had me fooled,” his father expresses, rubbing his arm in mock hurt, “Just a second ago, you didn’t seem like my son, drooping like that all sad.” 

Hajime squints at his father’s remark and mutters, “I didn’t droop.” 

“Sure you didn’t,” he says lightly, “And you weren’t just about to quit when things were going tough, were you?”

Quick to retort, Hajime’s mouth opens, but shuts just as quickly, his mind catching up with his body. Hajime wraps the blanket around his arms and huffs. “I messed it up.”

His father waits for him to continue, encouraging him with a nudge to his shoulder. “And y-you’re really good at it, so…” he trails off, the pitter-pattering of rain overtaking his whispered tone. He can feel his cheeks burn in frustration, the heat even more overbearing surrounded by the blanket’s fleece.

His father’s silence just adds to his embarrassment. 

One second Hajime’s contemplating retreating within his sleeping bag. 

Then the next he hears his father’s sharp laughter, drowning the rainfall’s drumming completely. Hajime doesn’t have time to think as his father wraps his shoulders in a bear hug. Musky pine and tobacco smoke.

Squeezing, he’s unable to escape his father’s booming laughter in his ears, and yelps once more, struggling in his grasp. An iron-tight grip. 

“It’s hot dad—let go!” 

“You little scamp,” his father chides good-heartedly, ignoring his pleas, “Of course I’m going to be better at you. I’m better at you in everything.” 

Hajime instantly scowls.

Fixing him a mischievous gaze, his father adds, “What, you thought you were going to beat me at fishing knots? On your first try?” This makes his father burst into laughter again. 

Pushing his father’s chest, Hajime pouts. “W-Well, I wanted to do it right! And I…well, you wanted to take me fishing, so…” 

“So you couldn’t tie the knot—then what?” he stops, copying Hajime’s pout. “You thought I was gonna be angry with you? Upset with you because you didn’t tie string together right?”

Hearing his thoughts from his father’s voice, Hajime stills. The embarrassment flares again, this time for a different reason as he becomes sheepish, limp in his arms. The thought of his father ever getting angry at him for something like this—when did that ever happen? Feeling a little betrayed by his own thoughts, Hajime nestles further in the fleece, hoping it’ll hide his shame and pout. 

A couple of minutes must’ve passed. He has nothing else to go by except for his father’s quiet pats to his back, a steady metronome to the beat of his pulse. In a gentle rumble, he feels his father’s words reverberate in his chest. It tickles his ear. 

“My dad would take me on fishing trips, just like these ones. The night before I was a nightmare to my parents, never wanting to go to sleep in case my dad left for the trip without me.” 

Hajime burrows further in his blanket, blocking out his own experience from the night before in case his father can read his mind. He’s clear when he continues.

“We lived in the mountains, so we had these crazy hills that we would have to travel across to reach our secret camp hideout.” 

“You had a secret camp hideout?” Hajime whispers in his sleeve, eyes peering up only to see his father’s stubbly chin. He cranes his head to the side and sees the lantern’s light reflected in his eyes. 

On an exhale, his father nods. “You had to crawl through bushes and trees to get into the clearing. We called it Fort Evie,” reminiscing the past, his father takes a few moments to continue. “It’s after your gramma, since she couldn’t travel too far without her hip hurting. We wanted her to feel like she was with us anyways.” 

Hajime wonders if they can have a secret hideout too—name it after his mom. She would like that.

“One thing your grampa always would sure of was to always bring more supplies than needed. You know, he would always say,” pausing, his father’s voice stoops lower to imitate the harsh intonation of his grandpa’s, “better to be safe than sorry kiddo!” 

An owl coos somewhere nearby. Hajime belatedly hopes it’s found shelter as he holds onto each word.

“But because we always brought more supplies, we could complain and suffer carrying all of it up the mountain and back home the next day. Just imagine it—it felt like boulders on my back.” 

Hajime does imagine it. That must be why his dad’s shoulders act up. 

“So then,” he stops to glance around the tent, as if someone will hear, “before one of our planned fishing trips, I decided to unpack most of our gas thinking it would lighten our load.”

This startles Hajime out of his daze. “The gas? Isn’t that, like, super important? Dad!”

His father unwraps his arms around him to look him straight in the eyes. “I know right—what was I thinking? Your dad was real stupid, huh?”

Hajime finds himself chuckling, hands flying to cover his mouth. Even his dad had things he wasn’t good at. 

His father shares a chuckle. “Anyways,” he starts, worrying the back of his neck, “I ended up really screwing us over during that trip. Not only did your gramps scream at me the entire time hiking to the camping site, but we had to end the trip short or we would’ve frozen up into popsicles overnight without any gas for our heater.” In a smaller voice, he murmurs, “And then of course on the way back, he screamed at me the entire time too but whatever…”

This sorta sounds familiar; as if sparking a bulb in his head, Hajime scrambles to finish, “T-That’s why we always double check our bags before hiking…!”

Giving Hajime’s hair another fond ruffle, his father huffs in satisfaction. “Now, listen close,” his father scoots closer, signaling a secret only the two could be privy to, “cause I’m only going to say this once, since I know you’re a real smart kid.

“I’m your dad, and the best thing that I can do as your dad is to teach you what I know, just the same as your gramps did with me. So what if you don’t know how to tie knots—no one knows how to do it their first try.” Opening his palm, his father reveals Hajime’s attempted fishing line, in its jumbled glory, and holds it up to the mellow glow of the lantern. 

“This just means I can keep teaching you how to tie the best fishing line knots in town. So much that yours will be even better than mine.” 

The light in his father’s eyes seem to burn even brighter, roaring ablaze. 

“Understand, Hajime?”

The next second, his eyes are directed at him, the light catching on the sides of his irises. 

Hajime finds himself nodding before he realizes it. “Yeah. I…I do.” 

More tentatively, his father runs a hand through his hair before his shoulders sag in an exhale. He murmurs something to himself and reaches over Hajime to get the bin, placing it by his feet. 

With scissors in one hand, his father focuses on the fishing line. 

“Nothing we can’t fix, hm? Just give it some attention, and…” 

Snipping around the ball of knots, Hajime’s father delicately untethers the line from the hook, discarding the thread in the bin. He turns to face Hajime, a soft curve to his lips, and presents the fishing hook with rough hands. 

“There you go,” his father’s voice is but a hush in the rain, “As if it never happened.”

Under his father’s eye, Iwaizumi wipes his hands against his shorts in a rush and pinches the end of the hook between his thumb and index finger with more tension than needed. He looks at the hook closer, as if it’ll disappear from between his fingers, and registers his father’s warm chuckling in the background, like crackling firewood. 

With another snip, Hajime receives a string of thread to start anew. He inhales, his chest filling with a fresh vigor, and scoots closer to the lantern’s light by his father’s side. This time he’s going to get it for sure.

“Ready?”

Hajime nods and his father nods back. 

“First thread the line through the hook...”

* * *

“…Then pull the two threads in opposite directions.”

Iwaizumi reveals a finished blood knot tie. It still needs a trim, the ends too long and posing a risk of catching on the rod guides, but the knot itself is smooth, rid of any odd gaps or loops. Sturdy and unyielding.

He looks over beside him, Matsukawa’s eyebrows twitching more out of concentration than frustration, and hums a short noise of approval. 

As Matsukawa’s tie knots in another pull, he releases a long gasp, cradling his accomplishment with two hands. “It’s been 3000 years…” 

Ignoring his comment, Iwaizumi pulls the scissors out of his pockets and snips off the ends in deliberate motions, handing them over to Matsukawa to do the same. “Good job. It’s definitely an improvement from last week’s.” 

His eyebrows start twitching again, careful to not cut the actual tie itself, and exhales a chuckle. “No kidding. I really gotta get off the caffeine, my hands are getting shaky from the shit.” Whether or not he does it from exhaustion or the cold, his fingers fumble with the scissors, the blades hitting the dirt. 

Earlier he had thought it was the light, but Iwaizumi can make out the dark circles blooming under his eyes. He stifles the guilt coming up his throat and instead tries, “The station sounds like it’s giving you a hell of a week.”

“Talk about a tough month,” Matsukawa groans, bending down to retrieve the shears. A few steps closer and it would’ve been claimed by the stream.

With scissors in hand, he starts snipping at the line. “You see, we were recently assigned a new police sergeant for our department for the first time after a few decades.”

“A police sergeant?” Iwaizumi repeats. “What happened to Akira’s dad—he was in charge before I left right?”

“Yeah. He decided to retire cause he wanted to spend more time with his family.” He’s careful to pocket the snipped ends. “He was getting to that age anyways—what else could we do but throw him a party and wish him well.”

Nodding, Iwaizumi belatedly wonders if he’ll ever get to retiring age. Construction work is labor-intensive and can be risky depending on the task at hand. He recalls a hospitalized coworker laying on white linen sheets, his jaw askew from smashing into industrial steel pipes that weren’t stored in the right place. 

He shakes his head of the thought. Not the place to think about that. 

Rather, he occupies himself by taking extra precaution to unfold the chairs on stable ground. With the stream rushing past below their feet, he’s not particularly keen on taking a dive in 40°F water, even if it’s the highest it’s been the whole week. 

Matsukawa hands back the scissors and holds the small knot above him, blocking the sun from his vision. “It wouldn’t be a big deal, and they’re pretty helpful, you know, keeping the department together and all that, but I’m convinced the new guy has a stick up his ass with the way he talks, all condescending and shit.” 

For Matsukawa to be rubbed the wrong way, this guy must be a real character, Iwaizumi thinks. Out of pure curiosity, he asks, “What’s his name?”

“It’s Ushijima Wakatoshi. Some higher-up that transferred from some big city,” Matsukawa visibly shudders. He pulls up one of the chairs closer and plops right into it, slumping into the nylon fabric. 

Not that he can infer anything from a name, Iwaizumi nods for a lack of response. Instead, he walks to Matsukawa’s side and hands him the bait box. “You know how you were going to help me tomorrow with that ventilator? Forget it and just rest up.” 

It makes Matsukawa’s eyebrow raise. “Thanks for your concern, but in the end, work is work. I’m sure it’ll settle down soon, and you didn’t bring me here to complain anyways.” 

Matsukawa takes the bait box and adds, “And don’t think you can stop me from helping you—I don’t care how much time you have on your hands here. You’re going to hurt yourself doing nothing but house projects all day.”

“Hey, I’m here with you, aren’t I?” Iwaizumi retorts. 

“Sure are, and I hope you can make time for me tomorrow too,” he slyly adds. “Lunch?”

“We literally live in the same house.” 

“Just want to make sure you haven’t made plans with someone else.” 

“Who else would I make plans with?”

“I don’t know—I think you’re pretty sociable.” Matsukawa’s a sarcastic little shit. 

With a jab to his sides, the two are quietly attaching bait on their hook. 

Iwaizumi casts the fishing line meters away, hearing the splash the fishing fly makes breaking the surface. He minds the reel, twisting until the line’s tension is to his liking, and sets the rod down against their makeshift hold. Iwaizumi inhales through his nose, the cold crisp and stinging, before exhaling through his mouth, following the trail of smoke until it dissipates into the air above him, the scraggly branches overhead catching his eyes. 

They're devoid of any leaves, the tips bare of their traditional flowering buds. All around the stream are the same trees with their branches arching over as if creating a tunnel. It must be pretty during spring, he thinks. 

And as a product of odd timing, Matsukawa groans. 

Iwaizumi turns, finding the man leaning back in the chair, legs outstretched and fingers weaved together over his stomach. His eyes are closed, face impassive as if in deep sleep. His chest rises and falls in even breaths. 

He exhales, “This is some relaxing shit.”

Huffing in amusement, Iwaizumi plops in the seat next to him, his vision falling across the bank, not focusing on anything in particular. “I’m glad you like it.”

Propping his elbows on the armrests, Matsukawa burrows further in the nylon seat. “I don’t know why I don’t do this more often. Nature’s fucking nice.” 

Hearing Matsukawa say that eases the guilt in his chest more than he’ll admit. 

Earlier Iwaizumi had briefly wondered if Matsukawa was just going with his whims by coming to the stream. It’s been a thought that’s been plaguing him since he’s arrived: is he adding more strain on Matsukawa’s life just by coming back home out of nowhere? With no prior planning or conversation, Iwaizumi had quite literally stumbled into Matsukawa’s life again after 8 years, a panicked phone call from his mother having him drop everything and come back home. 

He feels like he’s at a stalemate—leave Matsukawa with the responsibility of taking care of his mother or stay and trouble him, make him change his plans to now suddenly involve the appearance of his reclusive cousin. The man has a life, a life that didn’t include him outside of the weekly phone calls and checks in the mail. Does Iwaizumi deserve to lean on Matsukawa more than he has been by just being here? 

“You’re thinking too loud.”

He registers the voice a beat later and turns to find Matsukawa regard him with perceptive eyes. Eight years apart means that Iwaizumi has been relearning his expressions again, every twitch and flicker of the eyes staring back at him, but it seems Matsukawa doesn’t need as much practice as he does. 

“Lay back and join me,” Matsukawa directs easily. “Stop hunching over like that too—Auntie’s worried about your posture.” 

He knows Matsukawa’s been under more pressure at work lately, partially why he wanted to bring him out here in the first place, so complies and leans back as instructed, even going as far as to mirror Matsukawa’s outstretched legs. 

It seems to placate the man as he finally shuts his eyes again. 

All that’s left is the sound of the babbling brook along their feet, fishing lines swaying by the force of the stream, and the pervasive fog threatening to cloud his mind once more.

* * *

With the initial shock and spikes of nausea easing down, things have considerably calmed. For one, his mother no longer startles at the sound of another person in the house that isn’t Matsukawa.

As part of the house’s many routines, a schedule-set system was put in place. On a printed calendar hanging beside the kitchen’s doorway, both his mother and Matsukawa had gotten into the habit of jotting down their appointments or where they would be on certain days in case they forgot to tell one another. Circled in red would be Matsukawa’s days in the station, in yellow would be his personal appointments, and in green would be whenever his mother decided to venture a little farther away from the house, walking the dogs near the forest’s line or mushroom hunting during the right season. Days that would be blank, his mother would know to expect another person in the house, that Matsukawa was bound to be somewhere within the walls. Days that would have something marked, his mother understood that Matsukawa would be home later that day anyways. It was a system that Iwaizumi vaguely remembered explained to him over one of Matsukawa’s many unnamable phone calls from when he was in the city, one of the many measures established for his mother’s ease of mind. 

However, he was never made fully accustomed to this until his mother had used a wooden cutting board as an impromptu weapon when he trudged in the kitchen the next morning, “knocking his head completely on accident,” as his mother had cried into his shirt afterwards, her nerves still a little frayed and overwhelmed by his relatively new appearance in the house. The next hour had been spent calming his mother down from the sight of the board (“I could’ve given my baby a concussion!”) and eventually ended up tucking her in bed for a short nap. He makes sure to attend to the calendar religiously now, circling his outings in blue although so rare. 

Another thing, Winston. 

His grumpy coonhound he knew as a pup has grown up to be the young age of 16, considerably healthy and still plenty grumpy. True to his prediction, his energy has softened dramatically, favoring lounging in the sun’s rays cast on hardwood and taking frequent breaks in between his loitering around the yard, and Iwaizumi can’t help but sit beside him during these moments even though Winston probably doesn’t like the body heat he radiates. If given the chance, Winston will seclude himself from the other dogs, disliking their higher energy levels, and occupy himself in a random corner of the house. From his reunion, it seems like Winston doesn’t remember Iwaizumi’s smell from before he left, not too fond of a stranger’s appearance in his territory, but Iwaizumi just hopes it’s Winston’s lack of recognition and not because the hound still holds a grudge for him leaving. Iwaizumi can’t find it in himself to blame Winston for either reason anyways. 

His daze is interrupted. 

Cassie (whom he’s learned is a mix of Australian Shepherd and Boxer) paws at his hand, once, twice, before Iwaizumi gives in and figures that he can organize later, relocating his laptop atop a pillow, to run a hand through scraggly, untamed fur. He untangles the knots one by one, brushing his hand down her head and down her spine to an energetic tail. 

And repeat. 

It’s when loose fur starts to tangle around his fingers, bearing a close resemblance to crystal sugar spinning into clouds of saccharine cotton candy, that he entertains the notion that spring really could be coming early this year. 

And what a blessing that would be, for the ice to thaw off the roof shingles and feed into the rivers. For the fish to migrate back to warmer waters and for the dead grass to make way for fields of emerald greenery. He has no doubt in his mind that the dogs would enjoy that, charging through the pastures and feeling the stalks of tall grass graze against them, and he can imagine his mother too, lagging behind to pick a collection of wildflowers that she deems proper for the living room. And the dining table. And the bathroom. And every other room and corner in the house. 

However, as of this moment, Iwaizumi is capable of only playing out his wishes in his imagination and has to relent to the reality that the dogs are shedding profusely no matter the season, evident of the stray hairs tickling the tip of his nose. Cassie is still donning a customary winter coat and judging by how thick it is still, Iwaizumi expects this season isn’t going to go that easily without a fight. He gives it another two months before buds of flowers and leaves sprout on the branches of naked trees and another three for the air to finally warm up to the idea of longer days and shorter nights again. He thinks of his visit to the stream a few days ago and softens. 

It takes Cassie to bark for him to realize his hands have stopped their pampering through her brindle scruff. She stares resolutely at him, a whine this time demanding the attention she feels she rightfully deserves and Iwaizumi reels back the coo winding in his throat. 

Instead he chides, “No fussing.” 

He waits a moment as Cassie shuffles her paws in place as if trying to convey her outcry for needed attention and finally plops onto her belly in an indication of obedience. Iwaizumi nods and strokes her neck as a reward for being quiet and not because he’s weak to her. Nothing but that. True to Matsukawa’s word, over the course of three weeks, all three dogs whom he’s only seen through a blue LED screen have proven to be absolute sweethearts. 

Cassie, ever the affection-seeker, has stuck to his side from the moment he's arrived. With pleading blue eyes, she isn't afraid to nudge her nose into anybody's belongings and acts as if she'll combust if she doesn't get a proper amount of coddling each day from all residents of the household. Then there's Mako, a stoutly built hound with a nose for food he shouldn't be getting into. Truly food-driven, Mako has been caught red-handed with his head stuck in the bag of dog food on several occasions, even more so when the pantry is left open a crack. He's the youngest of all the dogs, comical when you compare their sizes, and has the growing appetite to show for it. The oldest of the three would then be Myra, a sleepy girl who doesn't strive on attention as much as Cassie does. She gets moments of energy, sprinting around the yard in bursts, but after that she's the first one pawing at the screen door to reclaim her spot for a nap. The most liked by Winston out of all the dogs for obvious reasons. 

As Cassie melts into the carpet, Iwaizumi again marvels how used and comfortable he’s become in a makeshift routine he unknowingly set himself for, sitting here in the middle of the living room, on a late Thursday morning, and well, simply put, exist. It makes him feel a bit sheepish, a twinge of second-hand embarrassment to overcome him during his construction around the house, when he remembers all of his prior worries and anxious thinking related to coming back. His drive over certainly wasn’t considered calm but his itch for nicotine has yet to blur his rationality ever since he stepped foot indoors. The stillness and serenity that naturally seems to come with the house and its secluded location seems to be the perfect balm to soothe his nervous habits. Waking up this morning, Iwaizumi felt as if he’s never left in the first place. 

The house is quiet enough to make out the sound of the wash cycle upstairs enter its last phase, a melodic chime signaling ten minutes left. He hears his mother behind him scribbling on a fresh page of canvas-textured paper. The whistle of a kettle brewing grain, earthy tea. The sound of curtains brushing against the windowsill as the breeze carries notes of frosted pine through the open window. Aside from Cassie, Myra is dozing a few feet away, snoring much louder than he expects a small Russell terrier to be capable of producing, as Mako, lounging beside the doorway, gnaws on a ratty Godzilla stuffed animal Iwaizumi had found in his old room, collecting dust on top of the shelf above his bed. Before he settled down on the rug, Winston had been sitting on his mother’s bed, his head resting on the windowsill. 

It’s nice, albeit terrifying, to handle this quiet happiness with gentle hands. Perhaps it’s his mindset that comes along as a side effect of his nervous habits, but he wonders sometimes—sitting on the porch stairs, dogs roaming the yard and the atmosphere drenched with points of delicate starry light—how long can these moments truly last? 

Surely he'll have to separate himself from this lifestyle and return to the city jungle, but if it means preserving this bubble, there isn't anything lost in the end.

When he accumulates what looks to be a small mound of hair beside his lap, his mother hands a dog brush over his shoulder, his stream of thoughts simmering down in his head. He knows she’s been settled in the armchair behind him, but on instinct, he turns around anyways. Instead of finding his mother swaddled in the sweater-knit blanket he found tucked in the hallway closet, he’s unable to confirm it as her palms gently twist his head back forward. 

“Not yet,” is all she says. Iwaizumi tries to look at her in his peripheral vision but relents quickly enough to brush the bristles through Cassie’s sides and not because of his mother’s knowing glance. Another few taps and his mother’s sketching blends into white noise. 

According to Matsukawa, a little chat over cold beer a week ago, his mother picked up drawing as a hobby as of late. “I thought she’d want something to keep herself busy—I thought right,” he had said, too pleased to attempt a smug expression. 

When questioned about it, his mother merely hid behind her mug and glanced at several pads of canvas paper stacked neatly in the living room corner, organized behind the crackling leather armchair. Of varying sizes and templates, his mother’s modest nature failed to underestimate her abilities, as always. Sketches of marigolds and peonies, a coffee mug with a picture of a cartoon bear stamped on the front, Myra dozing away atop Mako’s legs, a barren landscape with the exception of a lone tree—illustrations filled each page, each attentively drawn with his mother’s careful eye for detail. They’re compact snapshots of her life, proof of his mother’s existence that he had not been here for, but he pushes that thought back in favor of scanning through each page and tracing each line as if the motion would bring him just a little closer to the feelings drawn behind them. 

“All done.” 

Twisting back in his spot, he sees his mother brush off eraser shavings from the sheet before showing him. It’s a portrait of Cassie, sprawled over his lap with a goofy grin, tongue sticking out, clearly enjoying the extra attention. 

Iwaizumi’s lips soften into a grin in response, the only response his mother seems to need as she scoots out of her armchair to put away her supplies immediately. He doesn’t push, knowing she doesn’t want any verbal compliments, no matter how earned. 

Sliding the sketchbook in the bookcase, she turns around for the kitchen, returning shortly with two cups of steaming tea.

He receives it with a quiet, “Thanks.” 

As Iwaizumi is introduced to how difficult it is to drink hot tea while petting a begging dog in his lap, his mother curiously peers at his open laptop screen.  
Initially, after discovering it through looking through his desk, he had thought it would be more interesting to look through his old laptop’s library. Maybe find an old photo or two of when he was younger stored in the files. All that he had found so far were some past school assignments and saved bookmarks for job hunting websites. 

“You haven’t found anything yet?” his mother asks, sipping from the cup. 

“Nothing important.” 

She exchanges a glance with him, a tilt of her head asking for permission, and he responds with an easy nod. If she finds more entertainment from the laptop than he did, he’ll consider the thing not a complete waste of time. 

Through faint clicks of the touchpad, he watches her navigate through the folders one at a time. All the way from how she bites her thumbnail when focusing to how she enjoys keeping a mug of something hot close to her chest as she is now, Iwaizumi is learning more and more about her habits. Even the most miniscule details he discovers fills the little recess somewhere in his chest that started growing eight years ago, warming him from the inside out.  
How his mother enjoys having the window open despite the running heater in winter. 

How his mother reserves the last of her breakfast scramble to give to the dogs. 

How her eyes squint at reading the newspaper, refusing to get glasses. 

How she holds onto empty milk bottles to line the shelves with seasonal flowers. 

How she peers at Iwaizumi when she thinks he isn’t paying attention, because as much as he missed her in the city, she was missing her son just the same.

A breeze waves in through the window when Cassie suddenly sits up from under his hands, her ears attentive and alert. Mako, Godzilla plushie still in his jaws, takes the initiative and trots to the open window for a look. Myra doesn’t even seem to have noticed, her snoring still going strong. 

Iwaizumi hears a rumble of an engine and has his thoughts are confirmed when Mako starts barking.

“That must be Issei,” he says. 

“What, Issei’s here? Isn’t he at work?” 

Standing up, he hears his joints crack and stretches his arms to relieve some of the tension. “He wanted to stop by during his break and have lunch all together.” 

Cassie joins Mako at the window, barking up a fit. 

“Oh,” his mother utters, setting her cup down. “If you told me, I could’ve prepared something.”

“It’s just lunch with Issei—nothing special.” Iwaizumi leaves out how he wanted to surprise her with some Korean food. 

In his thinking, he misses her wringing the back of her neck. 

The engine outside shuts off, sending the dogs to crowd around the front door. Seems like Myra has finally woken up. 

“I’ll go help him. “

Following the dogs’ cue, Iwaizumi opens the door to greet Matsukawa as he’s walking up the driveway, carrying takeout bags. “Feeling like some spicy food?”

He meets him halfway to take one of the bags. The dogs are already curiously sniffing at the contents, Myra balancing on hind legs. “Sounds good to me. Everything good at the station?” 

“As bright as fucking rain.” Matsukawa runs a hand through his hair and pauses at the sight of the open toolbox besides the porch stairs. “You didn’t happen to start another project, did you?” 

“I was just organizing it,” he clicks it shut with his foot. “I need to make another trip to Moniwa’s and grab more crown staples—” 

_Crash! _

The noise rears up his spine and up to his ears, jarring him. 

The dogs start barking and scratching the door to get to the source. Inside the house. 

“Mom?”

And the next he hears is his mother shrieking. 

“Shit!” Matsukawa tosses the bag and bolts inside. 

Iwaizumi is right behind him, darting through the hallway. 

Not in the front. 

Not in the living room.

But in the kitchen. 

He meets the noise with wide eyes. 

The remnants of a glass plate is shattered on the wooden tiles. Cabinets are thrown open haphazardly. His mother is on the floor rummaging through one of them with frantic hands.

“I can’t find it—where is it?! Where is it?! I can’t—no—I—This isn’t right. This isn’t right…”

She’s sobbing and Iwaizumi is wondering why his feet can’t move. 

“Auntie!” Matsukawa’s approaching her from the side slowly. “Auntie! Auntie, can you hear me? It’s Issei.” 

Another plate is chucked out. It meets the ground and explodes in fragments. 

Myra is whimpering behind him, tail down. It’s foreign to see Cassie snarl like that. 

“Auntie! Everything is okay—you’re not in trouble. Everything is okay so can you look at me—”

“Stop! Stop! You’re all liars! You don’t care! You—everyone is lying!” she growls.

“Auntie, please. Look at me, it’s Issei. I need you to breathe—”

Jerking up, she sweeps the kitchen in distraught, searching for something that isn’t here, and her feet lunge towards jagged shards of glass. 

Matsukawa rushes in then and wraps his forearms around her torso, her arms locking in front of her chest, and twists away. Her feet start kicking out, her head swinging to get out of the restraint. It’s here that Iwaizumi can see her expression in clear view, mouth snarled and eyes desperate, and his throat constricts around a whisper. 

Although their eyes meet, Iwaizumi inwardly knows that his mother looks through him instead.

Matsukawa dodges the slams to the face, his lips flattened to a line and a harsh twist in his eyebrows, and heaves her weight away from the glass. He passes Iwaizumi’s prone figure and heads straight to the front door. Her feet attempt to hook around the doorway. With a little force, Matsukawa manages to balance both of their weight out of the house. 

The sound is faraway, both seeming to muffle and deafen his eardrums; he can vaguely make out their voices in one ear and the pitched whistle of the tea kettle in the other. They’re drumming to the rapid beat of his heart and he’s starting to wonder if it’ll overexert and come to a standstill.

A wet snout pushes at his hand. 

It makes him take a step, and then another. 

Trudging down the hallway as if wading in swamp mud, swallowing him up to his waist and threatening to engulf him whole, Iwaizumi can’t seem to cross the threshold. 

Even though Matsukawa’s lips are moving around words with strain, his mother visibly stricken with something she can’t shake, and the hounds are snarling at the sharp, bitter smell of unease shrouding the house, Iwaizumi can only process how his chest constricts and his ears pound. 

Between his and his mother’s photo, his old man’s crooked figure stares at him, his sunken eyes haunting and lips carved in one of terrifying glee as if mocking him.

He blinks. And he's gone.

* * *

“God, it’s sweaty in here.” 

“Maybe if you’d stop whining, we would’ve been done by now. ” 

“Shut it! I don’t see you in the suit!” 

“And who was it that made the mess in the first place?”

Atsumu makes a miserable groan in the back of his throat and accepts his defeat bitterly. It’s not his fault he didn’t have time to prep. 

He bites out, “Make yourself useful and grab more trash bags downstairs then!” 

From his perch outside, Osamu twists his head to peer inside the room with a blank stare, scarf wound tightly around his neck and pulled up to shield his lips. His brother’s been awfully difficult these days, more than he usually is with how much of a smartass he is, but Atsumu chalks it up to the broken generator, robbing him of the electric heater back inside. They’ve never been good with the cold after all. 

As if taunting him, another cold shot of air breezes into the room, nipping at his bare ears. “Well? You waitin’ for a formal invitation?” 

Hiking his shoulders up to his neck, Osamu exhales white fog and turns back around to head for the stairs. 

“And I live with this fuckin’ creep,” Atsumu mutters. “Can you believe that?” 

No response. 

“Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.” 

Nudging the trash bag with his foot, Atsumu waits. And frowns. “I can’t have any good company ‘ere. Lousy.” 

With a last grumble, he tightens the facemask and sets back into the repetitive motions with muscle memory and a renewed vigor. Daylight’s going to end soon and he’s not willing to give up the chance to meet with Kita later. He needs something fun to play with around here and the promise of seeing a face that isn’t his brother’s is too tantalizing. 

Time to ramp up the pace. 

It’s when Osamu gets back with the roll of trash bags that Atsumu twists the bottle back onto the cleaner solution, tossing the dirtied rags in the bucket to soak overnight. He sweeps the room of any remaining items he hadn’t gotten to in one bag—a half-pack of cigarettes, a zippo lighter, some gossip magazines, and a disassembled cheeseburger—and settles for spraying the room with another disinfectant for extra measure tomorrow morning.

“The cart still there?” Atsumu asks, tying off the last bag.

Osamu hums, already having pushed it beside the door, and surveys the room. Only when he finds the state of the room acceptable, he steps in and slips on the latex gloves from his pockets. 

One by one, the twins lug the trash bags and their cleaning supplies onto the platform cart. They work in silence until the room is void of anything sinister and otherwise odd—the place a perfect replica of a default, shaggy motel room, reverted as if the mess never happened. 

Atsumu steps out of the room first, eager to strip off the suffocating cleaning gear. First is the facemask; unhooking the straps around his ears, he gulps the frigid air into his lungs. It’s crisp, refreshing, and everything that he couldn’t have in that musty room. 

Next, he unzips the front of the suit, from the top of his neck down to his navel, and peels the clinging sleeves away before stepping out of the legs as if shedding his exoskeleton. He’s left in summer attire, a pair of baggy shorts and a cheap t-shirt he found in a sales bin. Immediately, the gusts of air cools his skin, wrapping around tendons and raising goosebumps along his arms. 

Once the suit and face mask is stuffed in a trash bag, he peels the gloves off and turns them inside out. He takes a few steps back, balls the gloves up, and takes aim at the open bag. 

He shoots. 

“And he scores!” 

Osamu doesn’t look particularly amused when he joins him out the door, but glosses over it. “Room’s clean. Good job taking longer than necessary.” 

“Always gotta kill the mood, ‘Samu.” Slinking closer, he hangs an elbow off his shoulder, resting half of his weight on his brother. “Are you upset cause you weren’t able to call this room?”

He scrunches his nose in response. “God knows that I would’ve at least done it better than you, ‘Tsumu.” 

“It’s okay, next shipment will be yours to deal with,” Atsumu breezes. He refers to the room with a tilt of his head, lazy smile on his lips. “And then I can complain about how shitty of a job you do.” 

“Can’t wait,” Osamu deadpans, shrugging the elbow off his shoulder. 

“Boys!”

The two look down over the railing to find their Grandpa waving from the ground floor.

He calls, “If you’re finished cleaning, come down and meet our guest.” 

At the mention of a guest, Atsumu’s eyes widen at the prospect with excitement. Scanning the parking lot, he notes a black sedan that wasn’t there before.

“Looks like you don’t have to wait long,” he regards Osamu with a glint in his eyes. “Your shipment has just arrived.”

Osamu rolls his eyes and starts for the ramp, pushing the cart forward. 

With the sun setting, leaving the motel in overcast orange and blues, Atsumu leans in to grip the doorknob, giddy to get downstairs. 

“Until next time Room 18.” 

The door shuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahahaha I'm sorry. I don't know if this chapter reads how I want to do, but I hope it's something that can serve as a taste of what is to come. It's interesting to wrap backstory within the present timeline, so I hope it offers some reasoning as to the characters inner thoughts and actions. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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